


A Modern Odyssey

by Red_Chapel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/pseuds/Red_Chapel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Molly’s trip, but Mycroft’s journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charybdis

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 68. Molly/Mycroft; slow romance- Molly ends up on some absolute disaster of a trip (possibly due to Sherlock somehow?) and calls the only person that she figures will have the power to help (change her flights, find her luggage, get her a room in the entirely booked up locale). She expects 20 minutes of assistance from one of his minions, but Mycroft is so amused by her audacity in calling him, and so in need of a vacation himself, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

At least it couldn’t get any worse. Molly reminded herself of this repeatedly as she hunted for a place to sit in the surprisingly seating-scarce air terminal. She had already lost everything: luggage, passport, money, boarding pass. The only things she had left were the clothes she was wearing—a bit ripe now after too many hours continuous wear, the last few spent in a panicky sweat—and her mobile with its battery close to dead.

And there were plenty of people in the world worse off than her. After all, she had been on her way—was still on her way, she promised herself—to a tropical island paradise to spend an entire week away from bosses, corpses, and paperwork. Losing a few items and experiencing a few delays was nothing.

 _That’s right_ , she thought. _Keep it positive. This will all be over soon._

She finally found a vacant bench end and poised herself on it as far from the other occupants as she could, trying not to stink too offensively and to look like she hadn’t been crying her eyes out in the ladies’ room just twenty minutes ago. Not that she could be blamed for that, really. When you’ve missed your connecting flight at a foreign airport, had your purse stolen, and watched your passport get flushed down a toilet, you’re entitled to a good cry. So she had cried until she’d stopped, then washed her face and gone in search of a place to sit and think.

Molly’s thoughts were thus: She was alone, she had neither money nor ID, she could not leave this airport without plane tickets or a passport, and hunger was starting to set in. Her only asset was a near-dead mobile. She briefly considered attempting to sell it to a fellow traveller for enough cash to get some food but quickly dismissed the idea. As the only possession left to her, she was loathe to part with it just yet. Even though, of the few friends’ numbers she had in her contacts list, none seemed likely to be able to help her out of her current plight, rendering it doubly useless. You’d have to be Sherlock Holmes to fix a situation gone so entirely wrong. And since she had no idea where he was…

Holmes. Mycroft Holmes? The thought tickled at her brain. Certainly he would be able to fix this. He’d need only snap his fingers and one of his staff would have the whole thing sorted inside of half an hour. But could she really contact him? She brought to mind an image of the man: tall, assured, condescending, reeking of superiority and power. He was like Sherlock squared. Even Sherlock himself, in unguarded moments, sometimes spoke as if he were in awe of his brother.

She looked at the phone, knowing that the number that Sherlock had programmed into it before he left was still there. And there might just be enough battery left to make the call. She gave a final two minutes to thinking of any possible alternative, any way out of this desperate and terrifying measure, but no plausible notion presented itself.

As it would do no good for everyone within fifty feet to hear just how miserable and vulnerable she was, she rose and sought an out of the way corner from which to make the call. She stopped down a short hallway, across from a custodian’s closet. A tiny spark of joy warmed her when she powered the mobile on and it didn’t immediately shut off again. With the number on the screen, she grimaced and pressed the call button. There were barely two rings before a female voice answered with a simple, ‘Hello.’

That was when Molly realized that she had no idea where to start and that she should have rehearsed what to say, if only to ensure that she got it all out before her battery died.

‘Um, hello’, she began. ‘My name is Molly. Molly Hooper. I know, well,’ ( _I’ve met three times!_ ) ‘I’m an acquaintance of Mr. Holmes, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Ah, is it possible by any chance to please get a message to him? It’s kind of important. And urgent. It’s really quite urgent. And important.’

‘One moment, please.’

While she waited, the mobile beeped twice to remind her that its power was fading fast. Then another female voice answered: ‘Miss Hooper?’

Susanna. Molly was pretty sure it was her voice; she’d heard enough of it while waiting in an outer office to tell Mycroft that his brother was alive. Susanna, a stunning beauty that made a day at the office look like a red carpet affair. Molly wished she could look like that in a dress, although right then she would have settled for just one piece of clean clothing to change into.

‘Ah, hello. I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Holmes?’ _Why did that have to sound like a question?_

‘Would you?’ Almost mocking.

‘Yes; yes, I would’, Molly stated.

‘Has our mutual friend contacted you?’

‘Uh, no.’

‘Then why do you wish to contact Mr. Holmes?’ Molly wondered if this woman’s role in life was to challenge all callers just to weed out the riff-raff.

‘Well, I’m on vacation, you see. And some things have gone wrong. Actually, everything’s gone wrong.’

‘Perhaps you should call your travel agent’, Susanna suggested.

‘I don’t have one; I booked the trip myself. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s just that I’m in Madrid, and my purse was stolen, and I’ve lost my passport, and my luggage left without me, and this battery is about to die, and I’m hungry and tired, and I really want to be on a tropical island, or even back home in London, but I can’t even leave here, and I— Please, I don’t know who else to call.’

A pause. ‘One moment, please.’

‘Wait. Hello?’ _Oh, God, no! Don’t put me on hold. Please, battery, don’t die now. Don’t let me lose this call._ Molly watched the seconds tick by on the screen. _Please, please, please, come back and talk to me._

And finally there was a change in the silence and she was told, ‘Someone will contact you shortly, Miss Hooper. Good bye.’

‘But—’ The connexion was cut, the call over. _But you don’t even know my number and my mobile’s going to be dead anyway and I didn’t tell you which terminal I’m at and I am actually going to_ die _at this airport. Archaeologists will find my body in some corner that I wandered into before simply falling over dead._

Molly stared at the mobile in her hands. It beeped three more times, the last of its death throes, then the display blanked. Her mind blanked with it.

A moment later the door nearby opened, and a workman emerged pushing a cart. He looked at her, suspicious, no doubt, of anyone who would choose to loiter near the cleaning closet. As he pushed past her, she saw his nose wrinkle and he gave her a look of distaste.

_Oh, god. Even the janitor thinks I stink._

Deciding that the one thing she could do for herself was to die where her body would be found without delay, she returned to the waiting area. Her previous seat was taken. Every seat was taken. With a sigh, she put her back to a wall and slid to the floor.

 

‘Señorita Molly Hooper, por favor venga a Control de Seguridad en la planta cero.’

‘What?’ Molly asked. She had heard her name over the loudspeaker, but it was surrounded by Spanish, spoken too quickly for her to even attempt a translation. Her name came again, this time engulfed by rapid-fire French: ‘Mademoiselle Molly Hooper, s’il vous plaît venezà la poste de sécurité sur le plancher zéro.’

 _Security?_ She scrambled up, looking around for someone to help translate. ‘Miss Hooper, please come to the security checkpoint on floor zero.’

‘Oh.’ _Now what?_

The message cycled through overhead twice more as she made her way down two flights of stairs. As she sought a sign to direct her, a guard stepped forward. ‘Señorita Hooper?’ She nodded. ‘Señorita Hooper, tienes que venir conmigo immediatamente.’

‘I go con you-go?’ she asked, pointing at him.

The guard frowned. ‘Miss Hooper, you must come with me immediately’, he stated carefully.

She was led past the crowds and taken to what she guessed to be the main security office for this terminal. Her escort showed her to a small, sterile room and left, closing the door behind himself. To Molly, it looked creepily like the interrogation rooms you saw on TV police dramas, lacking only the two-way mirror.

A few moments later a woman appeared with a tray bearing food and bottled water. Molly’s stomach rumbled with enthusiasm. Setting the tray down, the woman smiled briefly and turned to leave.

‘Wait, please’, Molly said to stop her. ‘Um, por qué—’ She grimaced and inwardly cursed her difficulty with foreign languages. ‘Por qué me here?’ she said, gesturing first to herself and then to the room. The woman shrugged. ‘No se.’ She gestured to the food, smiled again, and left.

It was a sad little sandwich, cello-wrapped and dated for sale by sometime the following week. But it was food and Molly had last eaten nearly ten hours ago, so she tucked in with gusto.


	2. Aeolus

The next time the door opened, Molly jerked her head up from the table where she’d rested it in an attempt to nap. The attempt must have worked despite the lack of comfort; she could not have said how much time had passed, but her bladder was telling her it was enough for the bottle of water to have neared the end of its journey.

Mycroft Holmes and a well-dressed, older gentleman stood in the doorway. Mycroft gave her one swift look and turned to glare at the man. ‘Esto es lo que considera que son alojamientos confortables?’ He turned back to Molly.

‘Miss Hooper, I assume that you are ready to leave Madrid now.’ When Molly simply stared at him, he took a step closer, looking concerned. ‘Miss Hooper?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She jumped up, knocking over the empty bottle and making a clumsy effort to catch it. ‘Yes, please’, she added as it bounced across the floor. ‘But’—she looked between the two men and the several guards in the hallway—‘I can’t leave without my passport, and that—.’

‘That has been taken care of.’ Mycroft withdrew a small red book from his coat pocket.

She sighed and smiled at him. ‘That’s— Thank you.’ Her smile became a beam of joy. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes.’

‘Perhaps you wish to freshen up before departure?’ he suggested, putting the passport away and holding up a small carry-on bag in his other hand. ‘There is a ladies’ room just down the hall.’ He moved back to the door, and the others fell back before him. When the suited man, looking anxious and apologetic, would have spoken, Mycroft quelled him with a look.

While Molly was grateful for the contents of the bag—basic toiletries and a complete change of clothes—she couldn’t help but blush at the thought of Mycroft Holmes carrying around a spare pair of knickers for her. Still, she quickly washed as much as one could in a sink, relieved herself, put on the blessedly clean clothes, and tidied her dishevelled hair into a single long plait.

When she felt sufficiently in order and had repacked the bag, she opened the door and looked around. The woman that had brought the sandwich was waiting to take her to the outermost part of the security offices. There, Mycroft leaned calmly on his umbrella while the older man stood in obvious distress, his anxiety increasing when he saw her.

‘Señorita Hooper, I hope that you are feeling better’, he said, taking a step toward her.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Señorita Hooper no tiene más necesidad de sus atenciones’, Mycroft broke in. ‘Ni de su incompetencia.’ He straightened and held a hand toward her. As he prepared to escort her from the office, he directed a last imperious look at the pathetic figure. ‘Esperemos, señor Soria, que esto no precipitar un incidente diplomático inconveniente.’

Mycroft took the carry-on from Molly and led her into the main area of the terminal, a hand at her back. She had a dozen questions to ask, but the first that came out was, ‘Who was that man? The head of security?’

‘He is the official in charge of this airport’, Mycroft responded. ‘And as fine an example of what happens when you reward mediocrity as I’ve seen in years. It’s no wonder his new wife has already taken to sleeping with her stepson.’ At Molly’s gasp, he clarified, ‘Her _adult_ stepson.’

‘Oh. How do you—’ _No, I don’t need to know that._ ‘Where are we going now?’

‘I believe you wished to be on a tropical island’, he said.

‘Yes. You were able to get me new tickets?’ she asked hopefully. He barely glanced at her. ‘Right. Of course you were.’

‘That is why you contacted my office, is it not?’

They stopped then at a boarding area. Mycroft showed their passes and they continued on. Molly thought it odd that no one else was around, but when they reached the plane, she thought she understood. Looking right, she saw that the economy section was already full. Then an attendant was guiding them left toward the widest, plushest plane seats that Molly had never hoped to see. She settled herself while the attendant stowed the bag. When he left, she turned to Mycroft.

‘Were they holding the plane for us?’ she whispered.

Mycroft looked annoyed, and she regretted asking, but it seemed his annoyance wasn’t for her.

‘They wouldn’t have had to if señor Soria had been less obsequious and more efficient.’

Molly sat back as the plane began to move. She had more questions, but the few people in this section were so quiet, and then the engines were so loud once the plane was lifting into the sky. Whenever she glanced at Mycroft, she saw that his eyes were shut and he seemed to be concentrating intensely. When finally the plane levelled off and he had opened his eyes, she said, ‘Thank you.’

He gave a small smile and nodded.

‘Um, I was just wondering…’

He turned to look at her. ‘About?’

‘Well, you. I mean, when I called, I thought that maybe your PA could replace my tickets, send a new passport overnight, something like that. I didn’t expect—you’, she repeated.

‘Ah.’ He released his lap belt and drew an attaché from beneath his seat. Molly wondered when it had got there. ‘I suppose you could have spent another day as a hostage of the Madrid-Barajas Airport. I had thought, however, that you would appreciate a more immediate resolution to your situation.’

‘Oh, I do! Really. I was just surprised to see _you_ here.’

Mycroft busied himself with searching through his case for some papers.

‘So we’re going back to London first?’ Molly asked quietly.

‘After all you have endured in attempting to achieve your tropical vacation, I would deem it unconscionable to send you straight back home. No, Miss Hooper, you are on a direct flight to the Caribbean.’

Molly considered this. ‘Why are you?’

Mycroft gave her a last quick look before opening a file and settling into reading. ‘May I suggest that you take advantage of the comforts of first class? I’m sure a nap would do you good.’

 

Mycroft was not often asked questions to which he could not provide immediate answers. When he was, they typically came from persons wielding a great deal of power in the world and involved at least seven foreign governments at once or mathematics that would make Stephen Hawking cry. They were not the three-word utterances of a mousy assistant coroner.

‘Why are you?’ _Why indeed. Why are you on a plane bound for the Caribbean? Why are you sitting next to a mousy assistant coroner on that plane? Why are you not at your desk or in your accustomed chair at the Diogenes? Why are you troubling yourself to do something more easily done by one of your staff?_

Mycroft sighed and tried again to focus on the report in his hand. He read three paragraphs before he found he was staring, for at least the fifth time, at Molly, asleep in the fully-reclined seat beside him.

_You know why._

For his brother, of course. To repay the debt he might be considered to have to Molly for her help in getting Sherlock safely away from London so that he, and others, might live. For this, he would see her safely to her destination. And, despite a distaste for travel, he knew that it was beneficial to get away from the office occasionally. A day or two in the sun would also help to improve the Vitamin D deficiency his doctor was concerned about. With a small detour, he could even check in on Grant and Sommersby on his way back to assess the situation in—

_No. The other reason why._

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, replaying the conversation he had listened in on when Molly had called from Madrid. The desperation and fear and pleading—if ever he had heard the voice of a person in need of rescuing, it was Molly Hooper just then.

_Yes. That reason._

Because when your strength was brain work, and you spent your days in dim offices pouring over reports and nights in a dim study composing responding analyses; when everything that you did was for the good of Queen and Country and some causes even larger and more important than those; when your every thought and action mattered in the world and you could raise or destroy nations with the stroke of a pen, yet who you were and what you did and that you even existed at all was forever a secret because that was the best way to get the work done and to help the most people and to do the most good…

_You never got to be the hero._

But if you could help just one person, in just one simple way, and look that person in the eyes when you did it…

Mycroft opened his eyes and bent once more to the work before him.

 

Molly was awakened by the flight attendant’s gentle request that she return her seat to the upright position and fasten her lap belt. Mycroft, she saw, was just as he had been earlier: deep into his paperwork, making notes, the picture of focus and concentration. Just like Sherlock when he worked in the lab. She smiled as she noted the similarity.

‘Good morning, Miss Hooper’, he said, not looking away from his reading.

‘You can call me Molly’, she suggested, blinking and stretching.

‘As you wish.’ After a moment he tucked his papers back into his attaché and slid it under his seat. ‘I trust you’re feeling better now.’

‘Yes’, she agreed. ‘Much better, thank you.’ She looked out the window on her left: darkness with a tint of light at what must be the horizon. ‘I guess we’re almost there.’

‘Regretfully, we have a short flight after this one. There were no direct flights available’, he explained. ‘You can bear another hour in the air, I hope.’

‘Oh, sure.’ She glanced around the cabin as the engines began to whine with the plane’s descent. ‘Did I miss dinner?’

‘I didn’t wish to wake you. I thought you would need the sleep more than the food.’

‘Oh. That’s OK.’

They were the first off the plane when it landed and, instead of entering the airport, they were taken directly to another, much smaller plane. Molly thought it a bit silly to have both pilot and co-pilot on so tiny a craft, especially when she and Mycroft were the only passengers to board before it was closed up and sent on its way.

As they taxied through the dim grey of early morning, Mycroft spoke: ‘My apologies for the need of an additional flight.’

‘After all that time stuck in Madrid, any progress feels good’, Molly replied.

‘You spent a great deal of time there. Nearly twenty-four hours?’

‘Oh, yeah. Yes. I made a mistake when I booked the flight. I thought that the lay-over was three hours, but it was actually fifteen.’ She paused. ‘AM, PM.’

‘I see. And how was it that you missed the connecting flight when you had all that time in between?’

‘That was because of Sherlock.’ Mycroft’s gaze intensified. ‘Well, not really. I thought I saw him’, she explained. ‘That’s happened sometimes, since he’s been away. I think I see him on a bus or walking down the other side of the street. Does that happen to you?’ She looked questioningly at him. ‘Ah. Well, it happened at the airport. It was just a flash, but his profile and his eyes, they’re so distinctive—I thought it had to be him. So I tried to catch up to him, but there were loads of other people and every time I thought I was about to get to him, someone or something would get in my way. Then I heard the call for my flight, the last boarding call. I hadn’t heard the earlier announcements, I guess. But I was so far from the gate, I didn’t get there in time. So, off went my luggage without me.’ She paused and thought that she might as well finish the tale. ‘I went to the ticketing counter to see what I should do. While I was waiting in the queue, my mobile started beeping—I thought I must have a text, but it was actually the battery dying. When I was looking at my mobile, I set my purse down, and when I reached for it, it was gone. So, most of my money was gone, too.’

‘Most of your money?’

‘I had some emergency cash with my passport and tickets.’

‘And how did you lose those items?’ he queried.

Molly blushed. ‘Um, well, I was— I had to— I went to the ladies’ room.’ She began a study of the floor. ‘I’d got one of those special belt-wallet things to carry your passport in, you know, under your clothes, so you can’t get pick-pocketed. But it was a little awkward just then and I wanted to check to make sure I really did have my emergency money in it and I thought that the bathroom stall would be a good place to do that since I was alone and no one could see, so I took it off. And I’d hung it on the little hook in the stall there, you know—’ miming, she glanced to see his somewhat astonished face. ‘Well, maybe you don’t have purse hooks in the gents. But, when I stood up, I knocked it off the hook and it went straight into the toilet, and that was bad enough, but then it was one of those automatic toilets that flushes whenever you move and I moved to grab the belt and the toilet flushed and there went everything.’

Twenty years of government service enabled Mycroft not to laugh aloud.

‘Pretty crazy, huh?’ she asked, looking up at him.

‘It is certainly unique in my knowledge of traveller’s mishaps’, he acknowledged.

 

While Molly hadn’t minded the need for another hour’s travel at the beginning of that flight, by the end she was relieved to step off of the plane and know that she was, at last, at her destination. She spent the short ride to the resort staring at the ever-present view of early-morning light over the ocean and marvelling at the white sands and flowering exotics. Mycroft passed the time in a more decorous fashion, although he could not help but smile at her amazement.

As they pulled through the gate to the resort, Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Wow. This looks even better than it did on the website.’ She looked more closely at the buildings as they approached. ‘Actually, this doesn’t look anything like the pictures on the website.’ As the car rolled to a stop and a man stepped quickly to open their door, she turned to Mycroft. ‘This isn’t my hotel.’

‘This isn’t actually your island’, Mycroft said.

‘What?’

‘You were going to the Dominican Republic. An interesting choice. This is Turks & Caicos.’

Molly let herself be handed out from the car. When Mycroft stood beside her, she said, ‘But, I had reservations at a resort.’

‘Better perhaps to have had reservations _about_ that resort. You’ll be quite comfortable here’, he stated with a look around.

Molly, too, looked at her surroundings. The low arches, the balustraded patios, even the lettering on the building all said one thing: posh. ‘I really don’t think I can afford this’, she whispered.

‘How fortunate then that you’re not paying for it’, Mycroft said with a smile, then placed his hand to her back to guide her inside.

They were led to ‘The Villas’, as the desk clerk had called it: a series of buildings just metres from the ocean. On the short walk their escort informed them that ‘their luggage was unpacked’, ‘items were left as instructed’, ‘breakfast would begin soon in the Grill Rouge’, and more about the resort, but Molly couldn’t attend to most of it, too busy trying not to gawk like a schoolgirl. She gave up the attempt when the young man opened a door before her and handed her a key card.

From just inside the entry she could see to the windows overlooking the bay, the sea and sky framed by the low arches that seemed to define the place. Walking to the balcony was like walking into a postcard, one that you knew had to have been doctored to make it look so beautiful, but this was real. Molly was trying to decide on a name for the ocean’s colour when Mycroft appeared beside her.

‘It is stunning’, he allowed.

‘Yes’, she said. ‘Wow.’

He looked at her, amused.

‘There is a mobile phone, fully charged, on the desk. A laptop as well, should you have any need of it. If the clothes in the wardrobe aren’t to your liking, you can try at the resort’s boutique, although after that you may have to take a short plane ride to find anything else.’ She looked questioningly at him. ‘This island is almost exclusively occupied by a variety of resorts and the like. I doubt you’d find a regular shop closer than Grand Turks Island.’

‘Oh’, she said, then thought about what he’d said. ‘If I don’t like the clothes? Didn’t he say our luggage was here?’

‘In your case, replacement luggage. I directed that a variety of clothing should be sent for you.’

She looked back into the suite—living room, dining area, kitchen—and chose the double doors beside the television. She passed the bed to another door, but that was the bathroom—comparable in size to her bedroom at home—to finally find a closet off that. It contained, as Mycroft had said, a variety of clothing: sundresses, shorts, tunics, blouses, trousers, two cocktail dresses, and a bikini that made her blush to look at. She opened a drawer to reveal—

More knickers arranged by Mycroft. Or his PA. Hopefully very much by his PA. She retreated to the living room. Mycroft looked at her expectantly.

‘They’re…lovely.’ He smiled approvingly. ‘I can’t believe my luggage got lost, too. It’s all so…surreal.’

‘My suite is adjacent to this.’ He nodded toward a door near the desk. ‘Knock if you have need of anything that the concierge can’t provide. And just charge everything to the room.’

‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’

He left while she still stood trying to sort through all that had happened in the last two days.


	3. Laestrygones

After finding breakfast, which she would have described as delicious if she’d had any thought beyond replenishing her depleted energy reserves, Molly returned to her suite to succumb to a last catch-up nap. It wasn’t until after lunch that she went out to explore the resort.

It was one thing to charge a meal to the room—and she’d kept her lunch small so as not to appear to be taking advantage—but it was another entirely to start buying clothes on Mycroft’s account. Especially as he’d already filled her closet with plenty. Still, she was looking forward to a swim, but she wasn’t sure she could wear the bikini that had been left for her. She didn’t consider herself a prude, but she did think that a complete bathing suit should weigh more than a greeting card.

Looking through the offerings at the boutique, she began to think that she was, perhaps, if not a prude then somewhat behind the times when it came to swim wear. As an alternative she found a cover-up that she thought would go well with the bikini; however, a check with the shop attendant on the island’s currency and the conversion rate induced her to return it to its rack.

‘But it’s perfect with your eyes.’

Molly started. Beside her stood a tall blond man, bearded, with stunning blue eyes and a smile that would melt bricks on an iceberg.

‘Of course, your eyes are perfect on their own.’

She blushed and breathed a laugh. ‘Oh. Thank you’, she managed, looking back at the garment.

‘However, if your not taking it means that you won’t be covering up so much down on the beach, maybe I shouldn’t interfere.’ He held out a hand to take hers. ‘Troy Conner.’ Completely flustered, she let him take her hand and watched, amazed, as he bent to kiss it. He looked back up at her expectantly.

‘Oh. Molly. Hooper. Molly Hooper’, she stammered.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Molly Hooper. The greatest pleasure I’ve had since landing on this island, in fact.’

His smile made it difficult to speak; the warmth of his hand made it nearly impossible.

‘Have you been here long, then?’

‘A few weeks. But you’ve just arrived’, he stated with confidence.

‘How do you know that?’ she asked.

‘I’m sure I couldn’t have missed such loveliness if you’d been here more than a few hours.’ He still held her hand, as if afraid she would escape if he let go.

‘Just got in this morning, actually’, she acknowledged. ‘Thought I’d take a look around.’

‘Your first trip to the Turks?’ She nodded. ‘Then you’ll need a guide. I’d be honoured…’

 

They spent the afternoon wandering slowly down the beach, then took a few hours to venture into the town, such as it was, and down to the yacht club. As they circled around the cove, he told her of the racers and sloops he’d sailed, of the thirty-footer he’d lost in a card game, and the forty-footer he’d ordered custom-fitted to console himself for her loss. His relaxed manner and easy talk soon had her laughing freely through his stories of sea and sand. As the sun was setting, they made their way back to a dinner at the bistro where she had breakfasted.

She was finishing a parfait layered with exotic fruits, only half of which she could name, when the waiter brought their check to the table.

‘Oh, damn’, Troy exclaimed withdrawing his hand from his pocket.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Ah, god, I feel like an idiot’, he explained. ‘Half the reason I wanted to go into town this afternoon was so I could fetch my wallet. Didn’t figure on taking such a long walk this morning’, he said in response to her questioning look. ‘I left all my cash and cards in my room.’

‘Oh, um—’

‘I’m so sorry, Molly. It’s the ships. I can’t walk by them without getting pulled in. I forgot all about going back to the Sands. That’s where I’m staying, at the Silver Sands down the beach a ways.’ He looked at the check. ‘I can’t even charge it to the room here.’ He looked toward the bar. ‘Don’t suppose they’d let me wash the dishes for a few hours’, he joked.

‘It’s okay. I’ll get it’, she offered with a smile.

‘You sure? I really am sorry. Not exactly the way a gentleman treats a lady. I feel like—’

‘It’s okay, really. I can charge it to my room. It’s not a problem.’

‘Molly’, he said, taking her hand. ‘You are a truly beautiful woman.’

 

The next morning she had just sat down to breakfast when Mycroft came up beside her.

‘May I join you?’ he asked.

‘Sure’, she replied. When he had settled in with his small bowl of fruit, she asked, ‘Did you get out and have some fun yesterday?’

He gave her a polite smile. ‘I had a bit of paperwork to attend to. Perhaps this afternoon I’ll have a stroll on the beach.’

‘Oh.’

‘I hope you are enjoying yourself. Is the tropical island as paradisaical as you’d hoped?’

‘It’s lovely. All of it. Really, really lovely.’

He noted the width and intensity of her smile, the dreamy drift of her eyes.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

As they ate, Molly heard her name called out. She looked up to see Troy jogging up the beach toward the restaurant. Mycroft noted the expansion of her smile and turned to glance at the man, who slowed as he passed under the awnings at the entrance.

‘Troy! Hi.’

‘Molly.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Too late, I see.’

‘Too late?’

‘I was hoping to find you before you had your breakfast. I thought we could eat at the Yacht Club this morning. Best omelettes on the island.’ Resting a hand on Molly’s shoulder, he turned to Mycroft and extended his hand. ‘Hi. Troy Conner.’

‘Oh, Troy, this is Mycroft. Mycroft, this is Troy. I met him at the boutique yesterday.’

Mycroft did not shake hands, instead smiling blandly and settling back into his seat to study their sudden guest. Troy, unperturbed, swung around behind Molly and grabbed a chair from the next table. He sat himself between them at the round table, close enough to Molly to drape an arm on the back of her chair.

‘Troy sails yachts’, she said. ‘He’s even sailed here from Florida…’ she looked the question at him.

‘Twice’, he declared. ‘Of course, that was with the bigger ships. I prefer the smaller ones these days. Don't really need all that space when it’s just you and someone special.’ He smiled winningly at Molly. ‘Be out there right now if the new one was ready.’ He shared again the sorrow of losing his ‘Sweet Escape’ in a round of blackjack.

‘Would that be the same round of cards in which you lost your watch and ring?’ Mycroft queried.

‘What’s that?’ Troy asked.

‘Your watch; an older model Bell & Ross, judging by the fading tan line. But I think you lost the ring from you right little finger much longer ago. I’m sure the gem was worth a tidy sum and served to tide you over for a good while. Did you part with all of her gifts so readily?’

‘Who’s gifts?’ Molly asked.

‘Those of the last woman he “befriended” at a resort such as this’, he told her, then turned back to Troy. ‘Your clothing indicates that you parted ways three seasons ago. Did she get tired of the gambling, the lying, or just you in general?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Troy challenged.

‘I beg your pardon. I only seek to help you make efficient use of your time’, Mycroft responded coolly. ‘You were about to ask Molly what she had planned for the day, were you not? So you could insinuate yourself into those plans and, with luck, into her life for a time.’

‘My life?’

‘To save you any more wasted hours’, Mycroft continued, ‘allow me to inform you that Miss Hooper is not the woman you are looking for. The designer clothing you saw her looking at in the boutique and have noted her wearing, the meal she provided for you last night, and the suite she charged it to have, in this instance, lead you in the wrong direction. She is not the lonely, independently wealthy target you had assumed but is, in fact, here entirely at my expense. And since I have no interest in paying for your next meal, I suggest that you look elsewhere for a solution to your cash-flow problem.’

Troy looked liked he would offer some argument, but Mycroft gave him a steely glare and he rose carefully. ‘My mistake’, he said and strode away.

Mycroft sighed his annoyance and sat forward to resume his meal. Molly stared first at Troy’s departing form, then at Mycroft placidly eating his grapefruit.

‘You’re just like your brother, aren’t you?’

Mycroft looked up and saw the tears beginning to form. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

‘Just like him.’ Molly shook her head in frustrated disbelief, rose, and hurried away. Mycroft again sat back in his chair, this time to wonder what had just happened.


	4. Tiresias

Not being exactly like his brother, he had determined the problem by the end of his meal. He had intended only to protect Molly from the manipulations of Troy the would-be (and had-been) gigolo. Thus, he had made plain to her the man’s intentions. To insure that he gave up his pursuit, Mycroft had also made plain to Troy that Molly was under his protection. Nothing stung so badly as being humiliated in front of your expected prey and nothing said ‘stay away’ so well as another man’s prior claim.

That claim was the problem. He’d gone about it in such a way that Molly could hardly help but feel cheapened, practically naming her as a professional escort, there only because he was paying for her to be.

As Mycroft walked back to his suite and the encrypted emails he knew awaited him, he reflected that heroism was best left to those well practiced in it.

 

That evening, Mycroft had no trouble finding Molly. She was at another of the resort’s restaurants, dining with a new suitor. He readied himself and went in. While he would rather have waited for her to return to her rooms and do this privately, he knew from years of diplomatic experience that some apologies were best made publicly.

She saw him approaching. Her companion noted her look and glanced once at him, then returned his gaze to Molly. She shook her head in response to whatever he asked.

‘Good evening, Miss Hooper.’

‘Hello, Mr Holmes.’

As they exchanged their greetings, the man rose and gave Mycroft an assessing look.

‘Ah, Derek, this is Mycroft Holmes. Derek Jamison.’ Derek extended a hand, which Mycroft shook firmly.

‘Pleasure to meet you, sir. Molly’s told me you’re responsible for her being here. I have to thank you for that. Care to join us?’ He gestured to the table and sat down.

‘Thank you, no’, Mycroft replied. ‘Miss Hooper, I hope you will forgive the interruption, but I wish a moment of your time.’

Molly, looking concerned, said, ‘Okay’, and moved as if to rise, but Mycroft continued immediately.

‘I wish to apologise for this morning. I believe I stated matters in a way open to gross misinterpretation and that this has upset you greatly. I assure you that neither was my intention. I hope you will accept my apology.’

Molly’s face showed her surprise, and she hesitated a moment.

‘Yes’, she said at last. ‘Thank you.’

‘I also hope that you will allow me to make amends. I’ve engaged a private charter for a sail around the islands tomorrow morning. I would be honoured if you would accompany me.’

Molly began to smile. ‘That…sounds lovely. Yes. Thank you.’

‘I’ll come round to your suite in the morning, if I may. Seven am? We should get an early start to make the most of the time.’

Molly nodded.

‘Thank you, Miss Hooper. I look forward.’ He nodded to them both and walked away.

As he left, Mycroft smiled with satisfaction. He’d had little doubt that Molly would readily accept his apology; she was by nature one of those persons that did not hold onto resentments and slights, wanting interpersonal relationships that functioned smoothly. Apologising in front of her new friend had only made it more assured. And while the public apology worked for Molly, publicly offering her something that Derek could not might work for him.


	5. Siren

If Mycroft were to sum up that sail in one word, it would be ‘brilliant’. Not in the sense that it was so commonly used, to describe something particularly wonderful—although that meaning, too, applied—but as it should be used, to describe Molly’s eyes and her smile and her laugh. Dazzling, luminous, radiant.

They had taken a car to the cove. Molly looked momentarily uncomfortable, no doubt remembering the tales—all now doubtful to her—that Troy had told. But Mycroft directed her gaze to the craft they would be on, and her eyes lit up.

‘It’s really a sailboat’, she said, excited. ‘We’re really going to sail like you said. It’s not a motor boat.’

Mycroft smiled widely. He had not known that he was addressing some particular fancy.

‘Have you sailed before?’ he asked.

‘No, but I’ve wanted to. On a real sailboat. Just the wind and the water. It always sounded so, I don’t know—’ She stopped, ducking her head with embarrassment.

‘Romantic’, he provided.

‘Well, yeah. I guess.’

He led her down the dock and handed her over the ship’s edge to the captain. After an exchange of greetings, Mycroft said, ‘I feel compelled to point out, my dear, that this vessel does have a motor. But we will be entirely under wind power today, won’t we, Captain.’

‘If that’s your pleasure’, he responded.

Mycroft looked to Molly.

‘Oh, yes, please.’

Molly was fascinated with the working of the sails. Even with so simple a craft, there was a certain art to coaxing the wind to bend to your will. The mate was patient in answering her questions as they made their way around the cove and through the passage to the bay.

They spent the morning in a leisurely circuit around Providenciales, widening their path to include some of the small cays. Eventually they chose to leave land behind, striking out into open water. As the distance to land grew, Molly seated herself beside Mycroft.

‘This is amazing’, she said. ‘I’m actually sailing in the Caribbean. Like a pirate’, she laughed.

‘Technically, you’re sailing the Atlantic Ocean. The Caribbean is to the south.’

‘Oh. Hm. I guess I don’t get to tell everyone I had my dream Caribbean vacation after all.’ She grinned at his look of protest.

‘If they have knowledge of the matter, they will be far more impressed to hear that you were in the Turks.’

‘I didn’t want to impress anyone’, she responded. ‘But I’ve always wanted to go to the Caribbean. Because it sounded like heaven. And I was finally going this year.’

‘Perhaps next year you can try Aruba. That should fulfil your requirements.’

‘I doubt I’ll be doing this again anytime soon. And certainly not anyplace like Grace Bay.’

He studied for her a moment, then said, ‘You might.’

 

They lunched just beyond sight of land, drifting slightly with the waves.

‘Too bad I didn’t wear my bathing suit’, Molly commented. ‘I could have swum in the Atlantic, too.’ At Mycroft’s concerned look, she added, ‘I’m really a very good swimmer. Made the school team one year. I could swim forever; I just didn’t have the speed they were looking for.’

‘The Ocean will still be here tomorrow if you’d like to come back.’

‘Could we?’ She brightened.

‘Of course. We head back soon, I’m afraid. If I had known how much you would enjoy this, I would have engaged the boat for the entire day.’

‘Oh, that’s okay’, Molly said. ‘I’m meeting Derek later anyway.’

‘Ah.’ _Still in contention, then._

Molly was quiet a few moments, then started hesitantly, ‘So, what did you think of him? Did you notice anything—I don’t know. Is he okay?’

Mycroft considered her. Wisps of hair worked free from her ponytail drifted about her face. She’d foregone make-up this morning, leaving her skin to glow with its natural beauty. Susanna had directed wisely on the clothes she’d had sent—they fell just as they should to accent Molly’s endowments. Her soft brown eyes, sparkling and gay all morning, had clouded just now with concern.

It would be so easy to answer that concern with a damning fabrication about her new interest; she would believe whatever he told her. But that would be decidedly underhanded of him and unjust to Molly. She was young and pretty and sweet, and she deserved a bit of romance to go with her tropical island holiday.

‘I saw him for barely a moment’, he demurred. ‘I don’t know what I could say of him with so little information.’ She looked at him with a hint of disapprobation. Mycroft sighed deeply.

‘You mentioned earlier that he is in construction and has taken himself from lone contractor to owner of a sizable operation. Obvious to anyone that he’s a hard worker. You also said that he’d taken well learning of your profession, demonstrating that he has spent time listening to you and not exclusively talking about himself. A good sign.’ She waited through his pause. He closed his eyes a long moment, then resumed. ‘His physicality matches that of his stated profession, down to the shape of his calves and the lines about his eyes. His watch was new last year, likely a gift to himself to mark his latest acquisition of a smaller company. The condition of his mobile demonstrates his frugality, but the watch and his trip here—another gift to himself—show that he is neither miserly nor reluctant to bestow rewards where they are merited, a practice that I suspect he carries over to his employees. His right hand and choice of shirts also support what he has said and shown of himself. In short, he has dealt with you in an honest and forthright manner.’

Molly considered all of that.

‘So, you like him?’ she asked.

‘I suppose you could— I think that time spent with him during your holiday would likely be time well spent.’

_There. At least now, if all of the silly vicars in England are somehow proven right, I’ll have one chance to avoid eternal damnation._

As soon as they had finished their lunch, the captain and his mate brought the craft about and headed straight back to Providenciales. Molly spent the journey back continuing her patent enjoyment of the simple pleasure that wind and water together could provide. Mycroft spent it trying not to stare at her.

On the car ride back to Grace Bay, Molly thanked him variously and repeatedly for such a wonderful morning.

‘Were you serious about going out again?’ she asked.

‘If you wish it.’ It would certainly be an improvement over the surveillance reports he would otherwise be reading.

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’ This had gone better than he’d anticipated. And he could reschedule his conference call—

‘Um. Let me check with Derek? He mentioned trying the ocean kayaking.’

‘Of course.’ Better than anticipated, but not as well as his wish. ‘Whenever you’re free. Just let me know.’

The car rolled to a stop, and the attendant helped Molly out. When Mycroft joined her, she gave him a last ‘thank you’ for the sailing. ‘And thanks for the stuff about Derek, too. It’s good to know he’s not a liar or a—whatever Troy was.’

‘Mr Jamison has lied to you only once, and that was a lie of omission.’

Molly’s brows furrowed in worry.

‘What didn’t he tell me that he should have?’ she asked, visions of a wife and kids filling her head.

‘That you are far and away the prettiest woman on this island. Good afternoon, Miss Hooper.’

Mycroft turned away quickly and marched himself double-time straight to his room, not slackening his pace until he had closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it.

_Where in god’s name did that come from?_

 

It was past eleven that night when he finally heard the faint sound of Molly’s suite door shutting behind her. It was his hope that she might purposefully forget his comment from this afternoon and continue her fling with her construction worker. It would save them both a great deal embarrassment. Her late return indicated that matters were going that way. However, when she rapped lightly on the connecting door a few moments later, hope began to die.

He knew what her words would be: ‘What exactly did you mean when you said “prettiest”?’ He knew the expression on her face: confused and flattered and a bit sad. Sad because she would feel awkward for the rejection she would then give. He steeled himself for the exchange and opened the door to her apologetic face.

‘Sorry to knock so late. You weren’t sleeping?’

‘As you see.’ He gestured to his clothes, the same he had worn during their excursion and not sleep-rumpled.

‘Right. Good.’

‘Did you need something?’ he ventured when she spoke no further.

‘You said to let you know. About the sailing. Well, I’m free tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever you’re going again.’

He felt his expression lighten.

‘I’d made no plans to do so tomorrow, and it is rather late to make arrangements now.’

‘That’s okay. Whenever you’re going.’

‘Thursday, then.’

‘Sure’, she smiled. ‘Sounds great.’

She nodded and began to turn back to her room.

‘Since you’re free tomorrow, perhaps you would like to explore the island itself.’

Her smile grew. ‘That would be lovely.’

Pleased that his predictive abilities were for once not perfect, Mycroft went to put away the papers strewn over the dining table. They would keep, and he should get a good night’s sleep.

 

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ Mycroft looked at Molly in surprise. They were riding horseback along the far eastern end of the island. Neither had much experience, but both had been willing to try an adventure, and so they had taken impromptu advantage of the riding service they had discovered. ‘Not that you wouldn’t be nice to someone’, she clarified. ‘It’s just that, I know I asked for your help, and I know your brother, but you don’t really know me. So, it’s just especially nice of you, that’s all.’ Molly shrugged.

‘I find I like being especially nice to you’, Mycroft stated, pleased at the blush that his words put on her cheek. ‘After all’, he continued, needing to keep the moment from being too serious, ‘you have recently accomplished what I have wished for years to do.’ She looked at him, puzzled. ‘You killed my dear little brother without actually doing him any permanent harm. My gratitude—and admiration—are boundless.’

She laughed. ‘It was all his idea. I just did what he needed me to do.’

‘And you performed your role perfectly.’

She smiled abashedly.

‘Not to mention how Sherlock would have reacted had he found that I had neglected you in your hour of need.’

Her look turned sombre. ‘Have you heard from him?’

‘Not directly.’

‘Indirectly?’

‘Having word from you that he was alive certainly helped, but I’m sure that I would have noticed him before long. Sherlock can be so very obvious,’ he said with disdain.

‘What is he doing?’

Mycroft turned his horse’s head to retrace their path along the beach. ‘Shall we try a bit of a canter on the way back?’

 

They dined that night at a buffet right on the beach. The sun was setting as they sat down with their first plates, and, by the time Molly was savouring her last bites of cake, the night sky was alive with a sea of twinkling stars.

Mycroft hated buffets; everything was so tempting and he wanted to try a bit of each. To distract himself and stay on his diet, he kept the conversation lively. He drew from Molly a few frightening tales of her time in the morgue and laughed to learn how she’d got the job there: she’d been the only applicant not to faint on the final interview. In exchange, he shared several stories from his work that didn’t require a security clearance, changing names to protect the infamous, and described some of the foreign lands he’d visited. With Molly listening, those lands seemed more vibrant and real than when he’d actually been there.

Caring might not be an advantage, he reflected, but it certainly had its good points. He had never known how very good it could feel to have a woman’s focus solely on him.

‘It’s too bad Sherlock isn’t here to have some of this’, Molly said. Well, not solely on him; Molly’s focus would ever be somewhat on Sherlock. ‘If anyone ever needed a dessert as rich as this, it’s him. He’s so skinny. I could almost do an autopsy on him without opening him up. Oh, sorry’, she stopped herself. Mycroft chuckled at the comment, and she relaxed. ‘He should eat like you eat—you look much healthier.’

To his credit, he kept the ensuing preening internal.

‘Perhaps you should inform him of that when you next see him’, Mycroft suggested.

‘I doubt he would listen to me’, she said as she trailed patterns through the crumbs with her fork. ‘He might listen to John, I suppose; he’s a doctor.’

‘You nearly are. Only a year shy of finishing your medical degree, is that not so?’

Molly looked up at him, startled. ‘How—? Yeah.’

‘Why did you not complete your degree?’ he asked.

Molly looked back down at her plate. ‘I don’t think I’d make a very good doctor.’

‘You have the intelligence; your current work demonstrates that. You also have the compassion, evident in everything else that you do. With both the brain and the heart, what do you lack?’

‘The spine. The last year of courses, that’s when it gets hard, right?’ She gave him a sad smile. ‘When you really see that it’s not just about wanting to help people or being able to memorise all the bones and glands in the body. You realise you’re going to be making life and death decisions.’ Her gaze fell again. ‘You need to be strong to make those decisions.’

 _Strong,_ he thought. _Or cold. Or simply capable of pushing your emotions so far aside that you can’t even recognize them anymore._

He placed a hand over hers. ‘You’re strong.’ He smiled as her eyes met his. ‘You must be to have survived Sherlock all these years.’ They both laughed to keep the sadness at bay.

 

Molly had forgotten, when speaking of swimming, that she did not have her own bathing suit with her. The only-slightly-provocative one-piece that she’d packed was apparently lost somewhere in the Spanish-speaking world. All she had was three patches of fabric and a bit of string. She supposed that she should be grateful—several of the bikinis she’d seen in the boutique had had far smaller patches.

Still, she had expressed her desire to actually swim, even emphasised what a strong swimmer she was. She had to go prepared to dive in. After a fair amount of agonizing, she put the suit on under blouse and shorts and headed out to meet Mycroft.

When she told him of her wish, the captain refused to allow Molly to swim while they were any great distance from shore, citing both sharks and the roughness of the water itself as reasons against it. The extra fifty dollars Mycroft had pressed into his hand while Molly chatted with the mate only served to bolster his position.

Mycroft was concerned with her plan. It seemed to him that, even on the south side of the island, still within the ring of cays that made up the island group, the waves were too big and swimming among them too dangerous. But the captain assured him that he knew the waters, knew where it was safe to swim, and that no harm would come to ‘his lady’. Mycroft accepted his pledge and didn’t bother to correct his terminology.

When the time came, Molly almost lost heart due to her attire. She lamented aloud the loss of her own suit. Mycroft lifted his brows in question.

‘Mine was a very different style from the one you— your PA— the one at the suite’, she explained. ‘This one is… It’s…’

It was time to be bold. She quickly unbuttoned and cast aside her blouse and as quickly slid out of her shorts.

Mycroft swallowed. Susanna’s exemplary service of late merited a salary rise.

Molly blushed to her toes when she saw how Mycroft examined her. She turned and made for the edge of the boat, wanting the cover of water.

Mycroft swallowed again at the new view and considered jumping in himself as she dived off the side. He could have used a bit of cooling off just then.

He did walk over to watch her, concern and pleasure mingling on his face. These waves were certainly too big; she could be swept away in a moment. And yet there she was, treading water and laughing at the thrill of it.

She swam along and around the boat, above the waves and below. In the end, she stayed in less than fifteen minutes, but they were fifteen of the most joyous minutes she had ever experienced. She was so elated that, allowing the crew to help her up the ladder and into the boat, then standing to let the water slide off of her, she momentarily forgot her bashfulness, and Mycroft was allowed a most memorable vision. She crossed the deck toward him, and he felt every Y chromosome in every cell in his body rise up to admire her.

‘Um, my towel?’ she asked, hand out to him. He started and remembered that he had been holding it for her. He held it out and turned half away, seeing her modesty reasserting itself. In doing so he noted that he was not the only one staring—the captain and mate were both appreciating Molly’s curves and vitality. He placed himself between her and the captain, the closer of the two; both men got the hint and returned to their tasks.

Once she had wrapped herself in the over-sized towel, Molly returned to her elated state.

‘That was brilliant’, she exclaimed. ‘Perfect. As long as I live, I will never forget this.’

_Neither will I._


	6. Lotophagus

Perhaps she had been emboldened by the swim suit, or perhaps any amount of fabric felt demure after it. Either way, when Molly selected her dress for that evening she chose, of the two at her disposal, the one she judged to be more flirtatious. It actually covered more than the other, but the way that the fabric wrapped around and about, one sheer end left to drape over her bare thigh, made it seem that she could be undone with a single tug. Checking herself in the mirror a final time, she tugged to make sure that this was not the case.

The dress was not necessary—even an elegant dinner at the resort’s finest restaurant did not require that patrons forget entirely that they were at the beach—but she had decided that she would take advantage of the opportunity. She liked to dress up, to look especially nice. A small voice in the far corners of her mind suggested that she also owed it to Mycroft: he was paying for everything, and since he apparently liked to look… Molly smiled at her reflection and walked out.

Mycroft waited for her in the living room. He stood looking out at the ocean, dark beneath the star-laden sky. His position was carefully chosen: he would see Molly’s reflection in the window as she emerged from the bedroom, giving him a chance to react somewhat to her appearance in whatever sinful delight Susanna had arranged without discomfiting her with a schoolboy stare.

It was not as bad as he had anticipated. Suggestive rather than salacious. He could face her and maintain his dignity.

‘Delightful’, he said.

‘Thank you. And thank you for this.’ She gestured to the dress. ‘All of this’, she added.

Mycroft crossed to her and took her by the hand. ‘Shall we?’

 

If Molly were to sum up that night in one word, it would be ‘decadent’. The dress, the food, even the breeze coming in from the bay. And especially Mycroft’s way of looking at her.

When he looked at her—and he seemed always to be—she felt as if he were really seeing her. She knew that a lot of people didn’t. They saw a lab coat or a ponytail or, more often, a means to an end. But Mycroft was seeing all of her, and not just the physical. As for need: he had enough people and power that he couldn’t need her for anything. Indeed, it was the other way around: she had needed and he had provided. She wondered if people often didn’t see him the way they didn’t see her.

As for Mycroft, he had no problem sticking with his diet that night, despite the offerings. His evening consisted of walking her to the restaurant, pulling out her chair, helping her to decide on an entreé, listening to her laugh, and watching her sparkle. He suspected that she was far more nourishing for him than anything on the menu.

After dinner they had drinks at the lounge. They talked and held silence, watched the people and watched each other. Mid-way through the night, Molly spotted Troy, fawning over a middle-aged woman who apparently couldn’t get enough of his charms. She pointed out the couple to Mycroft.

‘Yes. I see he’s found someone more suited to his needs.’

‘Do you think I should say something to her? Or you should?’

Mycroft studied them a long moment, then turned back to Molly. ‘She’s in no danger of losing anything substantial while here, and when she leaves, her son will ensure that Troy does not follow.’

Molly looked around. ‘Which one’s her son?’

‘He’s not here; he’s back home in Gravesend.’

‘Oh. You really think she’s not in any danger now?’

‘The worst he can do is double her food expenses and provide memories of a delightful few days with a very attractive, very attentive younger man.’

Molly lapsed into silence but could not stay so for long.

‘How can you be sure? How can you possibly know any of that from one look?’

Mycroft smiled mysteriously, then broke into a low laugh. ‘I know her son. A fine young fellow, destined, I think, to be a true asset to Her Majesty’s government. He’s said that, while he received his good education from his father, he got his good sense from his mother, so I trust her to handle herself well in her dealings with Troy. And I’ll make sure he knows, in case Troy doesn’t get the hint once her bags are packed.’

Molly giggled at his display, and Mycroft drank it down like wine.

When at last they could stay no longer, when the lounge was closing and the nearby bars as well, they made a slow journey back to their suites. They stopped in front of her door and she turned to face him.

‘I feel like I’ve said “thank you” and “lovely” enough this week to last a lifetime, but, really: thank you. This was lovely.’

‘You’re quite welcome, Molly. I, too, had a lovely time.’

She fidgeted with her clutch, then remembered to take out her key card.

‘I guess I’ll...see you at breakfast’, she smiled.

Mycroft had decided on the walk back that it might be nice to kiss a pretty girl. It had been a long time. _Do you even remember how to kiss?_ It had been a very long time indeed. Looking down at Molly now, the curve of her cheek, her gentle eyes, her soft lips, he knew the moment had come. He had only to get it right, or at least not get it wrong. He should move slowly, in case she wanted to turn away; bend fully to meet her mouth, not pull her up to him. A hand at her neck might help, though, should—

‘I’m sorry’, she said, backing away. ‘That was— I’m sorry.’

Mycroft blinked. She had kissed him. Quickly, chastely, a little off the mark but close enough. Just a slight movement forward and up, the press of lips, and she was away before he could respond.

She jammed her key card into the slot and pushed the door open.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She turned back—‘Sorry’—turned away again, and the door was closed.

She was still standing in the middle of the room berating herself for her idiocy—looks were one thing but kisses were quite another—when the mobile on the desk beeped. She slid her finger across it to reveal Mycroft’s text: ‘Please don’t be. I look forward to breakfast.’

 

Breakfast was on the balcony of his suite. She passed through the connecting door he’d left unlocked for her just as a waiter-type person was slipping out the front.

‘Good morning’, she said.

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek—he would get it right this time. ‘Good morning, my dear.’

They sat and chatted for far longer than was needed to drink smoothies and pick at pastries, but time seemed different here, and different today from yesterday. The sun rose, children ran to play on the beach, and sailboats crossed the bay, while in their own part of the world time was as a faerie's sigh, barely able to stir a blade of grass. It was almost noon when Mycroft turned from the balcony and said to her:

‘It strikes me that you haven’t actually spent much time on the beach. Getting a tan. Having a swim.’

Although it was true that she hadn’t spent a large amount of time on the beach, she had spent some: walking by herself and with both Troy and Derek. She’d spent enough time in the sun to get, if not a tan, a slight pink. And as to time in the water, she had met Derek at a snorkeling lesson, and nothing could top the swim off the sailboat. She was about to point all of this out to him when she realised: he already knew it. Probably down to the precise number of minutes she’d spent at each activity.

She smiled. Tanning and swimming were best done in a bathing suit. He wanted to see her in that bikini again. And why shouldn’t he? And why shouldn’t she oblige him?

‘I’ll go change.’

 

She was fretting over which blouse might go best and whether she should wear a skirt until she was in place on a chaise when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to see Mycroft holding out a swathe of fabric hanging in delicate folds.

‘I thought you might like this.’ It was one of the cover-ups she’d considered at the boutique. She smiled gratefully.

‘I’ll just be a minute.’

She retreated to the bedroom to slip off top and shorts and wrap herself in his gift. It was a gauze so sheer as not to cover up much at all in a single layer, but it was voluminous enough and drapey enough that it did the job.

They found a free pair of chaises and settled in to enjoy the ocean breezes for a while. Molly placed the cover-up over the back of the chair and stretched out so she could get some proper sun. She closed her eyes both to keep out the glare and to let herself believe that no one was looking at her if they happened to walk by.

After rolling over thrice to even out her exposure (and much to Mycroft’s delight), she sat up.

‘Should we go get our feet wet?’ she asked.

Mycroft also sat up and looked out at the turquoise vastness. Water had never actually been one of his favorite substances, not for optional contact.

‘You go ahead’, he replied. ‘You’re the one more suitably attired. I’ll get us some drinks’, he offered, swinging his feet onto the sand.

Mycroft was wearing the same essential outfit he’d worn his entire stay here, with the exception of their dinner last night: a silk camp shirt, light trousers, and sandals.

‘You could roll up your trouser legs. Like he’s done.’ She pointed to a gentleman at the water's edge with trousers rolled up mid-calf. Mycroft looked uncertain; he had strict habits of dress, and rolls of fabric had never featured in those habits before.

‘Here; I’ll do it’, Molly said, then dropped to her knees before him and set to work.

As she did so, all of the air went out of Mycroft and he didn’t know how to get it back. Her brown hair shone in the sunlight, her breath was warmer on him than his sun-warmed clothes, and each time her hands grazed his ankles, a jolt of electricity went straight to— _Dear god!_

By the time she was done, he had gained enough composure, he thought, to be able to look her in the eye. But then she said, ‘Stand up. Let’s see’, and he rose to obey her without even thinking.

She sat back on her heels, looked up and up at him, and asked, ‘How’s that feel?’

‘Fine’, Mycroft whispered. ‘Fine’, he tried again, getting out a real sound this time. ‘That’s— Thank you, yes, you can get up now.’

He held out a hand to her, and she lifted herself up. Giving him a satisfied smile, she said, ‘Now we can go get our feet wet.’

She left the cover-up behind.

 

Mycroft did not need a fraction of his observational skills to note the looks that Molly was drawing. Nearly all of the men and several of the women gave her a thorough examination as she passed by. From the looks some of them gave, they might as well have hired a skywriter: ‘Come see me when you’ve put the old man to bed.’

It took him 687 steps—to the end of the beach and back—to finalise his decision: Molly was going to be his, and not just for a few days of island-holiday flirtation. There was only this one small issue of would-be rivals to be dealt with. He stopped a few metres short of their chaises and turned to face her.

Mycroft Holmes had lived his life in secrecy and subtly long enough. It was time to be obvious.

‘Molly, my dear, you are the picture of loveliness.’ He leant down and kissed her firmly on the lips. ‘And I am honoured to be the man here with you today.’ He lingered a moment to breathe in her scent and smile at the fluttering of her eyelashes. Just as he began to straighten, she closed the distance between them and kissed him with a breathtaking enthusiasm.

Issue dealt with.

 

Shortly after that kiss, Molly said she was feeling a little light-headed and wished to return to their rooms. Mycroft saw no signs of heat exhaustion, but he walked her back straightaway all the same. When she was seated on the sofa in her suite, he offered her a glass of water.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine, actually. I was just a little—overwhelmed at the attention I was getting out there. I’m not used to that.’ She fingered the fabric of the cover-up spread across her lap. ‘I guess clothes really do make the man. Or woman.’

He sat on the coffee table facing her and took her hand.

‘The clothes would be meaningless without the woman to fill them. I wonder if you fully comprehend the effect you have...’

She considered a moment, then grinned. ‘Maybe not fully, but I do know that you almost jumped out of your skin when I went to roll up your trouser legs.’

He flushed in recalling the scene and the visions it had subsequently inspired.

‘I don’t think’, she said slowly, ‘that I’m there yet. Not that I wouldn’t. Won’t. I just mean, not yet. Here, this week. But after.’ She met his gaze. ‘If you’d like there to be an after.’

The worst in Mycroft came to the fore at that moment. He ached to fold her into his arms and kiss her breathless, to caress every silken inch of her, to hear her moan and sigh and feel her shudder and writhe beneath him. To take her and have her, just to know that he could have, there and then, and needn’t wait for an after.

But more than that, he wanted that after. The words ‘happily’ and ‘ever’ danced in the back of his mind and he nearly laughed, but he put a hand to her cheek and kissed her lips and pressed his forehead to hers.

‘I would like that very much.’


	7. Coda: No More An Idle King

Mycroft sat in his darkened study, allowing himself a short moment in which to relax at the end of his over-long day. The only light came from the fireplace, the flames dancing there mimicked in the shadows flickering across the walls. He stared at those shadows until one among them caught his eye. It moved apart from the others, pulling away from the wall to take shape before him. _Like Peter Pan’s shadow leaving its master, refusing, perhaps, to leave Neverland with him,_ he thought.

‘I hear you’ve been abroad’, the shadow said. ‘Considering your dislike for travel, it must have been something very important to draw you away from your lair.’

‘As I told Miss Hooper, you can be so very obvious, Sherlock.’ He could barely make out Sherlock’s pique in the near dark. ‘You could simply have mentioned that I might find her company to be oddly pleasant. Destroying her holiday was entirely unnecessary. And rather cruel.’

Sherlock moved to warm himself before the fire, further darkening the room.

‘You wouldn’t have listened to me if I had suggested it’, he said. ‘And I only intended that she should miss her flight and lose her purse. That she lost her passport to the marvels of modern plumbing was fortuitous happenstance. Besides’—he turned enough to watch Mycroft’s face—‘if Molly hadn’t been perfectly miserable, you wouldn’t have dashed out on a white steed to save her, and she wouldn’t have known what a hero you—’

‘Shouldn’t you be devoting your energies elsewhere? To finishing off the last of Moriarty’s empire, perhaps?’

Sherlock grinned. ‘That will be done by tomorrow night. Lestrade will be very happy to have the Adair matter cleared up, I’m sure.’

‘Will others be so happy to see you, do you think?’

Sherlock considered the question briefly, then gathered himself to leave. As he passed, Mycroft reached out and took hold of his wrist, stopping him.

‘I am.’

Sherlock stared at him in an instant’s surprise.

‘I see she’s had a profound effect on you already’, he said with a smirk, but then his face turned stern. ‘Cause her one moment’s pain and I will snap your neck with my bare hands.’ He turned away to go.

‘Stop using her with such callous disregard or I shall assign someone to snap yours.’

Sherlock smiled to himself and walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the tangential abuse of a great epic.
> 
> All non-English phrases from Google Translate; blame them, not me.


End file.
